


Unspoken Affection

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Epistolary - kind of, Established Relationship, Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, HD Domesticity Fest 2021, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, Love Letters, M/M, Married Life, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter, Romance, Sexual References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27458905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Sometimes, when you smile, I swear I hear music, then I realise it’s just the beat of my heart in my ears...Come back so I can dance."Harry finds a stack of post-its, and what starts as simply leaving Draco a reminder with a bit of romance turns into a lifetime of memories.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 211
Collections: HD Domesticity Fest





	Unspoken Affection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladderofyears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladderofyears/gifts).



> No young teenagers were harmed in the making of this story. As for their parents, well, send thoughts and prayers. We’re not okay. 
> 
> Thanks to D for the beta work and to Ladderofyears for the awesome prompt!
> 
> Mod note: Tagged mature for language and sexual suggestion.

It all begins innocently enough. Hermione leaves several packs of post-its in Harry’s rooms after her latest research project. The fact that she feels his personal staff quarters equals _her_ personal workspace at Hogwarts is unsurprising to Harry, but it’s annoying to his unofficial roommate.

 _Roommate._ He isn’t really a roommate. He has his own set of rooms down by the Potions classrooms, near where Snape’s had been a decade before. But as Draco Malfoy now spends the majority of his evenings and nights in Professor Potter’s quarters, and he’s begun to keep at least three outfits, a cloak, his broom, his skincare products, and his toothbrush all at Harry’s, well…he might as well be a roommate.

Roommate, live-in lover. Potato, potahto.

So, yeah, it’s not like the post-it notes are planned at all. Not the first one, anyway. Is it Harry’s fault if one innocent note has unexpected consequences? Well, maybe it is, but since they never actually acknowledge the notes, he can pretend to believe whatever he damn well pleases.

And, what pleases Harry is…well…Draco.

On the day in question, the day it all begins, Harry walks into his kitchenette, his long hair and beard still wet from his shower. He has an early morning meeting with Minerva about the Defence Club, so he pours his tea into his Muggle thermos—one of his favourite gifts from Hermione and Ron’s kids that has their picture on the side and the words “We love you, Uncle Harry” emblazoned across it—and grabs a blueberry muffin from the stash the house-elves keep for him. He slips on his teaching robes and pauses, looking at the calendar hanging on the wall.

Thursday, 16 October 2014  
_Dinner with Andromeda and Narcissa_

He hears the shower running now that Draco’s also awake and glances to the shelf by the door that is overtaken with his lover’s detritus—that’s Draco’s word, not Harry’s, for all of Draco’s shit. Harry glances back to the calendar, then considers. It’s Thursday. Draco hates Thursdays. He has classes of second and third-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs the entire afternoon; he nearly always spends Thursday evenings with children in detention.

Harry sees Hermione’s stack of post-its on the end table, then grins. He picks up a bright pink one, dashes out a quick note, then hesitates, and adds a bit more. He walks into the bedroom and picks up Draco’s teaching binder, sticking the note to the inside of the front cover for him to find later. Turning, he whistles a happy tune as he heads off to start his day.

* * *

Draco hates Thursdays. Really, truly hates them. Every bloody year he gets a day of double periods with second and third-year students. Second and third-years are seriously the worst. Something happens in children’s brains at twelve and thirteen years old that makes them crazy. He sometimes wonders if there’s some hiccough in the threads of reality that sucks out a child’s soul temporarily during this time frame.

They’re terrors. And they are every. Bloody. Thursday.

Harry knows but laughs at him because he’s had the luxury of altering his entire curriculum to be almost entirely activity-based for these two years of students. He keeps them outside, duelling or running or viewing dark creatures, so they have no time to be the little shits they are in a class that requires careful attention and delicate work.

Twelve-year-olds are not delicate.

And he gets to have them around fire. Lucky him.

He’s in his second class of the day, the first of his soulless terrors, when he begins to lose his temper.

“Miss Atkinson, did I, or did I not, tell the class to carefully read all of the instructions through twice before you begin chopping your ingredients?”

“But Professor, I know how to make this one already.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, which should be a sign to all of his students with even half a brain that they are treading on thin ice. “Read the instructions again.”

Atkinson scrunches up her eyes like she can shoot AK spells with her glare. “I don’t need to.”

The room falls silent. Merlin, he hates this age. He stares her down, refusing to let her win. “Miss Atkinson, how do you prepare the dragonfly thoraxes for this potion?”

The girl gives him a smirk and tilts her head. “By chopping them finely... _sir._ ”

Draco wants to roll his eyes, but he won’t give her the satisfaction. “In what state?”

She’s less sure now and tucks a light brown curl back behind her ear. “What do you mean, Professor?”

Draco looks around the room and sees one of the Hufflepuff girls widen her eyes when his gaze lands on her. “Miss Fletcher, what state should the dragonfly thoraxes be in before chopping?”

The Hufflepuff looks nervous, her freckles standing out as she blushes. “Toasted, sir.”

Draco nods. “Indeed. Five points to Hufflepuff. Ten from Gryffindor for Miss Atkinson’s not following directions and unwillingness to listen.”

The Gryffindor opens her mouth to speak, her face flush with anger or embarrassment or hormones—who the hell knows with these kids?—but Draco just waits. She finally closes her mouth and sits back down, allowing Draco to return to his desk.

He flips open his binder to jot down a few notes and finds something that shouldn’t be there. He slams the binder shut before anyone can see the bright pink slip of paper, completely out of place in a potions classroom, and then pulls the binder onto his lap.

He slowly opens the binder again, this time angled so that the students can’t see.

_Draco, don’t forget we have dinner plans tonight. No detentions.  
P.S. You have no idea how beautiful you are when the morning sun glints off your hair as you sleep in my bed. I’m thinking about that even now, as you read this, while I’m doing some routine lesson. You’re always on my mind._

“Professor?”

Draco looks up and feels his face heat. A Gryffindor student, Caleb Lewis, stands in front of his desk.

“Sorry, Professor,” the boy hurries on, his voice cracking. “I was just wondering how we were supposed to know how much to toast the dragonfly thoraxes?” He holds out his hand and has two examples at different levels of gold.

Draco clears his throat and smiles, closing the binder and setting it aside. “Good question, Mr Lewis. This one here is correct.” Draco points to the bug on the right. “Please stop at each table in the room and show them the correct colour. And five points to Gryffindor.”

The boy beams and begins showing his classmates.

Well, maybe twelve-year-olds still have a little bit of soul left…

* * *

Draco doesn’t mention the note to Harry. He simply slides it away inside a book in his desk drawer, but he finds himself opening it periodically throughout the day to read it again. Not because he’s sentimental or any nonsense like that, but simply because he needs a reminder on why he shouldn’t just give the entire class a freaking detention.

Over the next few days, he almost forgets about the note. The two men go about their normal routines, each night retiring to their separate quarters, only for Draco to use the Floo to spend the evening with Harry.

Then it happens again.

The post-it is purple this time. The writing is harder to read when Draco finds it under his napkin in the Great Hall at his evening meal since the paper is darker and so is the lighting around him.

Still, no one is paying him any attention, so he lights his wand beneath the table and glances at the note.

_You are so fucking hot. Imagine if I could eat you right here on this table._

Harry’s untidy scrawl is unmistakable, and Draco crumples the note tightly, willing away a blush. His eyes dart around the room, hoping nobody sees. Finally, they land on Harry sitting several seats down, laughing at something Hagrid has said, his back to Draco. Flitwick, however, sitting between them on Draco’s immediate left, has noticed.

“Draco, is something amiss with your roast chicken? You look…warm. Too much pepper?”

Draco forces a smile, the mixture of arousal and embarrassment almost painful. Grabbing onto the excuse, he reaches for his goblet of water. “Yes, I think it’s just a bit spicy.”

Flitwick raises an eyebrow, and Draco rushes to change the subject as he shoves the note into his pocket. “How is the Duelling Club performing? Are they ready for the tournament?”

Filius’s eyes light up at his favourite subject, and he begins to wax on about his students and the annual duelling competition he’s been hosting for each of the last five years. Draco listens, but Harry’s turned his way again, catching his attention from down the table, and his green eyes hold promises that bring the note back to Draco’s mind. _Merlin._

* * *

The notes continue. Occasionally romantic, sometimes mundane, often sexual. Draco never knows when he’ll find another. Sometimes there will be one nearly every day for a week, and other times he’ll go weeks without finding another.

But neither ever mentions them aloud.

Then it’s summer, and Harry is preparing to leave the castle for an entire month for a series of classes across Europe and America. It’s offered by the ICW and specifically revolves around Defence education. He’d be a fool not to go, and Draco tells him as much.

Even though Draco can’t go with him.

He has his own summer work tying him to his potions lab. It’ll be the longest they’ve been apart since they’d started this whole relationship thing the previous year. He’s secure in his place in Harry’s life as it is now, but what if Harry forgets him while he’s away, or what if his life changes just enough…

Draco notices a stack of bright green post-its on the shelf and sets to work. He writes the things he never seems to be able to say out loud, and some that he says often, just in case Harry forgets.

* * *

34 days. 34 notes. Each day away, Harry finds a note stashed in some unusual spot in his clothing or his satchel. Sometimes, he even finds them posted around whatever hotel room he’s currently staying in, and Harry never does figure out how Draco accomplishes that.

Each day away, his heart yearns for Draco a little more, and his resolve to complete this trip becomes a little less. Each day he looks forward to what the note might say. And each day, he falls deeper in love.

_You fucking wanker. Leaving me here alone like this for an entire month. I hope it’s worth it._

_This castle is miserable without you. You’ve not even left yet but I know it’s true. I need you here to fight with me and remind me who I am._

_Hey, Potter, I bought a dildo shaped like you. No, not like your prick. Like you. Did you know they sell Harry Potter shaped dildos? Now, where should I stick this?_

_I’m lying in bed, right now, naked and touching myself, thinking of you._

_Every morning when I wake, my first thoughts are of you. When you lay next to me, I watch you sleep, disbelieving this is my life. When you’re away, I wonder if I was correct before and it was all my imagination. Then I see your jumper strewn over a chair and my heart relaxes._

_Roses are red, Violets are blue, Twelve-year-olds are awful, And so are you. When are you coming back?_

_Harry Potter, how much do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love your emerald eyes and the way they flash the same way when you’re angry as they do when you come. I love the taste of your arse on my tongue, the sound of your moan as I lick inside you, the knowledge that I am your undoing. I love the soft caress of your hand across my brow when we’re both sated and you believe me asleep._

_Harry Potter, how much do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. I hate that you’ve left me here in the castle to rot. You tosser. I hate that you have this much control over me. I hate that my day is empty when you’re not here._

_I think I saw a Wrackspurt. Luna swears they require a proper orgasm to make them go away. I guess little dildo Potter isn’t cutting it._

_I love you._

_Sometimes, when you smile, I swear I hear music, then I realise it’s just the beat of my heart in my ears. As you read this note, I haven’t heard that music in nearly thirty-four days. Come back so I can dance._

34 days. 34 notes. He tucks every single one away to be read again when he’s alone and missing Draco.

And when Harry comes home, not just back to Hogwarts, but to Draco, he swoops into Draco’s quarters and they don’t emerge again for days.

* * *

The notes are still never mentioned, but the words come easier now without the need for writing.

Little reminders continue to be passed between them from time to time, but generally, they are inconsequential. They appear in pockets, in desk drawers, on kitchen cupboards, on bathroom mirrors—anywhere the other might find it at just the right moment.

_Minerva wants to see you after your last class. Also, you need a haircut._

_I moved your old school books into the storage trunk in the third compartment. You’d think they’d give us twice as much room since we’re sharing quarters now._

_Seeker’s Match after dinner? No students over the summer means the locker rooms will be clear. Wear your old captain’s shirt._

_Tell your mother that Molly said the 23rd would be fine for the engagement dinner, and that she’d like to bake a cake for it. Your arse looks great in those trousers._

_I can’t believe today is our wedding day. I’ll be the one at the end of the aisle in the amazing robes waiting for you._

_You looked so hot accepting that Potions Award. You’re brilliant and sexy and I can’t wait to pull you out of that fucking robe. Can we go now? I hate formal dinners, and I’m ready NOW._

_Don’t forget to tell Teddy we need him to babysit this weekend. Sirius can’t wait to see him and show him how he can use the loo. And I can’t wait to have a night alone with you._

_Nova has a project due Friday that she hasn’t started, and Sirius is spending the night with Frank at Longbottom House. Don’t forget that I’m supervising detentions tonight._

_The fucking second-years are going to be the death of me. Is it June yet? How is it they are this terrible every fucking year?_

* * *

Draco keeps every single one, especially the ridiculous ones. He’s tried to throw them away. He’s tried to burn them. If anyone ever found them, love notes of various colours on small slips of sticky paper that eventually span years, they’d certainly sell them to the press.

Harry and Draco are married now and long-established members of the Hogwarts faculty—their children fourth and sixth-year students themselves—but they are still the Boy Who Lived and The Junior Death Eater, and the wizarding public wants to know everything; they always have.

But these notes, these moments of their lives, this tangible evidence of their affection and time together. These are theirs.

And they don’t speak of them. They simply buy more post-its.

**Author's Note:**

> Mod note: Thank you for reading this work of the Domesticity Fest! Remember to send the author a nice comment and a lovely Kudo!


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